Ensconced. Immured. Imprisoned. Trapped.
All perfectly good words for my situation, but none of them can describe it to my satisfaction. So I made up a word for it.
You see, I have a lot of time to think up here. I can do almost nothing but think; I could sing, but I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and I have but two books, the dictionary and a short childish novel that I’ve read so many times the pages have fallen out and my interest in it has withered like a leaf in winter. I can weave, but that’s little occupation for my mind.
Mother Gothel brings conversation, but never of a very interesting sort. It’s a poor recompense, after she’s climbed up the side of the tower using my hair as a rope and practically pulling it out by the roots, that she only goes on and on about her precious herbs. I know chamomile makes a lovely tea, but I don’t wish to hear about every ant that sets its tiny feet on its leaves.
So with the long days, long as the thread on my loom, I have invented a word:

Onerdemurified.